The Rustle of Paper

A Week and Picture: A dead building. Or , so it might be hibernating. Who cares, it represents urban decadency, this city has been always in ruins, but what the heck, I love my piece of shit.

Location: Computer Room at school - Thought I would find incense here - Rustling paper

Feeling: Awake

Listening to: Teenage delirium, a blank stare silence

(Should we get used to you posting late?).

No. I just had a normal 2 day weekend become a delirious and jolly 5-day break. Wouldn't you doze off? (Specially when you have Wandering British and Flying Deutschman fooling around).

(Are you considering changing the usual Sunday post to another day?).

Not for now, but if this happens again, I might consider it.

(Great, we can continue to try and make your life complete).

Go to hell.

Was this a FAQ? (FAQ you!) Hopefuly no, I find them the most useless sometimes.

Yes, I posted late (AGAIN), but I already told you why. So let me kinda tell you what I did in these five (Amazingly necessary) days. Wednesday I went to the fair, and indeed it was a nice time of every year. This was the third time I go, and I realized that the stands are always in the same place, and well, even knowing this, you find stands that you could swear you never saw in past fairs. Remember the books I told you I was going to buy last entry, well, I didn't buy any of them (Surprise? Don't think so. I love being unpredictable). Sorta really, I did buy a book by Yasunari Kawabata, The Sound of the Mountain, which is now first in the reading list. Although I later found out that it tells about aging, I found it quite nice to read, its short, not complicated, yet still has a beauty that seems so western. Will it be worth it to learn Japanese to read this book in its original language? Don't know, I'll finish it first. 

Odd enough, Kenzaburo Oe's books were nowhere to be seen. Second, is a book that I bought out of just pure need of entertainment and pretty thoughts. The Conqueror, by Argentine write Federico Andahazi. It tells the story of a bright Mexica priest-warrior who finds out that there is another land on the other side of the ocean, and that when he goes to meet the new chaps, he realizes that those crazy bastards are going to destroy everything he loves (Oh noes!). Imagine that. Its like candy made of literature. Third is one that I'm a little scared because I bought it by looking the back of it and because it looked pretty. My name is Red, by Turkish nobel prize-winner Orhan Pamuk. Hey, my Islamic fascination isn't dead (Not with the Andalusian prospekt). It tells about an Otoman Sultan who wants to get a painted portrait a la Tiziano, but Sweet Lord Muhhamad's (Islamic) law forbids it. Little Sultan gets painted anyways (How wude!), everything is A-ok until one painter goes missing. I suppose that if I have a continuous reading rythm (Which I don't) I'll have 'em read by the end of June. Oh, and, as a bonus, I bought The Raven and other poems by Edgar Allan Poe. God that poem has a massive power, first horror stories indeed. He might have been the Proto-emo, but I'd rather think he wasn't.

I'm running out of time, so see ya nest sunday, cheers.

Sharkman, signing off.

P.S: What's a watch for if you can't have time?

Wrote this later: Sheesh!!! I rushed this information so fast that I guffaffed a lot of it back at 11 o'clock. I post it nice and neat again at 8. Fuck, I AM a mess.